IC-NRLF 


oA  City  of  Caprice 


by 

//  Compton  Wilson 


LIBRAKi 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
DAVIS 


A  CITY  OF  CAPRICE 


By  Neill  Compton  Wilson 

Illustrations  by 
Haydn  Lothers  and  Ralph  Young. 


Can,  within  a  mirror,  live 
Scenes  already  fugitive? 
Can,   in   oils  and   canvas,   thus 
Cling  a  sunset  luminous  f 
Or,  though  sweet   the  corsage,  yd 
Flourish,   plucked,   a   violet? 
Then,   oh   city   of   caprice, 
Shall  I  capture  you  loiih  these! 


THE  OVERLAND  PUBLISHING  Co. 
San  Francisco. 

L1UKAK  i 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
DAVIS 


Copyright    1920 

By 
NEILL    COMPTON    WILSON 


CONTENTS 

San    Francisco    9 

The  Farallone  Isles  10 

With    Fremont   1 1 

Mission  Dolores  1 2 

When  Sally  Danced 13 

Lotta's    Fountain    1 6 

Street  of  the  Adventurers  _ 18 

Powell   Street  1 9 

O'Farrell   Street  2 1 

"Rose  of  the  Rancho"  22 

In   a   Garden   24 

The  Trade  Wind  27 

Picture   Brides   28 

"S.  S.  China,  San  Francisco"  29 

Land's    End    30 

The  Legend  of  Tamalpais  31 

The   Fog  35 

Telegraph    Hill    37 

The   Magic   Carpet   38 

New  Year's  Eve— The  City  40 

The  Tivoli   41 

My   Friend   Rosner  43 

Barbary   Coast   45 

The  Kiss  - 47 

Market  and  Kearny  50 

Bush    Street 5 1 

Geary  Street— Eleven  A.   M „ 52 

Grant   Avenue   53 

Mason  Street— Eleven  P.   M _ 54 

Mardi   Gras   56 

In    Sanguinetti's    _ 58 

The  Last  Night  59 

In    Passing    61 

The  Lights  ..  62 


Acknowledgment  is  hereby  made  to  Prof.  Albert 
Stanburrough  Cook,  founder  of  the  Yale  University 
annual  prize  for  poetry,  for  the  republication  of 
"The  Legend  of  Tamalpais,"  the  1911  Yale  poem; 
and  to  the  Yale  University  Press  for  "In  a  Garden" 
and  "The  Kiss." 


A  CITY  OF  CAPRICE 

To  E.  K.  W. 


A    City  of  Caprice 


SAN  FRANCISCO 

I  sometimes  wonder  if,  in  days 

When  Rome  and  Thebes  were  young, 
When  Athens  ruled  her  epic  sea 

And  all  its  isles  among, 
When  glory  flung  her  torch  in  turn 

Unto  each  city-state, 
You,  too,  would  not  have  caught  at  it, 

And  men  have  called  you  great. 

At  times  I  wonder  whether  you 

Are  really  of  today, 
Or  of  another  substance,  dim 

Transmuted  from  decay: 
A  substance  that  has  outstripped  leagues 

And  leaped  antiquity 
To  dwell  anew,  in  lesser  state, 

Beside  a  younger  sea. 

Or  if,  indeed,  your  stones  reveal 

A  modern  chiseling, 
I  wonder  whence  your  attributes 

Of  mood  and  manner  spring. 
I  wonder  at  your  storied  hills, 

Your  genius  thousand-proved; 
But  not  at  this:   that  you  are  held 

Remarkably  beloved. 


THE  FARALLONE  ISLES 

I've  seen  the  sun,  in  boiling  red, 

Go  down  beyond  the  Fort, 
And  light  those  isles,  whose  distant  sails 

Seem  galleys,  of  a  sort, 
Forever  sailing,  ever  fixed — 

Those  ships  that  missed  the  port. 

I've  watched  the  crest  of  Tamalpais, 

Against  the  sunset,  throw 
Her  tawny  hills  in  shadow,  and 

Her  pines  turn  black  below; 
While,  standing  out  to  sea,  those  sails 

Dripped  silver  in  the  glow. 

I've  waited  till  the  stars  came  out, 

And  from  a  distant  dune 
Beheld  a  path  of  tossing  light 

Upon  the  water  strewn. 
And  ever  stood  those  galleons 

Across  the  broken  moon. 

Perhaps,  from  some  dim  yesteryear, 

A  proper  wind  shall  play, 
A  proper  helmsman  snatch  the  wheel 

While  yet's  a  course  to  lay, 
And  ships  that  missed  the  port  shall  come 

To  anchor  in  the  Bay. 


10 


WITH  FREMONT 

Over  the  hills  but  lately  Spain, 
Swearing  and  singing  at  the  miles, 
Lashed  we  through  grasses  stirrup-high, 
Riding  with  Fremont;  through  denies 
Up  to  a  crest,  and  there  drew  rein. 

Far  at  our  feet  they  fell  away: 
Circled  with  hills,  a  silent  Bay 
Blue  in  the  sun,  and  a  set  of  isles. 

Over  us  laughed  a  winter  sky 

Splotched  with  the  lengthened  afternoon. 

West,  to  the  sea,  a  strip  of  gray 

Wound  between  headlands.     Gilt  were  they; 

Into  that  poppied  cleft  were  soon 

Sinking  the  sun;  nor  light  nor  bell 

Noted  the  requiem  of  day. 

Empty  of  sound,  of  life,  of  smoke, 

Full  at  our  feet  the  harbor  lay. 

Fremont,  his  broad  hat  off,  first  spoke. 
"Let  us  push  on,"  he  said,  "  'tis  late, 
Yonder,  indeed,  is  a  golden  gate." 

Though,  as  we  turned,  I  thought  there  broke 
Gleaming  a  City.     Dream  or  speu, 
Fair  stood  it  forth;   its  walls  and  spires 
Flashed,  and  were  gone;    and  headlands  glowed 
Only  with  poppy-kindled  fires. 

So,  with  a  touch  of  spur,  we  rode 
Down  the  long  slopes  while  sunset  fell. 


MISSION  DOLORES 

Here's  a  garden.     Some  declare 
Once  Dolores  wore  it,  fair 
As  a  blossom  for  the  hair. 

Passers-by  may  well  forget 
Locks  of  hers  were  ever  jet. 
But  the  flower  is  blooming  yet. 

Long  have  slept,  beneath  the  bough, 
All  her  brothers  in  the  vow. 
Ay,  a  crone's  Dolores  now. 

Daily  at  her  litanies 

Sobs  she,  slipping  to  her  knees, 

"Padre!     All  mp  children,  these?" 

Then,  her  brief  devotions  done, 
Sits  and  drowses  in  the  sun. 
What's  a  crone  to  anyone? 


12 


WHEN  SALLY  DANCED 

When  Sally  danced,  and  dance  she  could, 
The  rare  old  Bella  Union  stood. 
Oh,  well  this  town  was  circumstanced, 
When  Sally  danced. 

When  Sally  danced,  a  frail  soubrette 
Was  Kearny  Street,  and  frailer  yet 
Became,  if  further  one  perchanced 
Than  Sally  danced. 

When  Sally  danced,  the  near-by  Coast 
Its  man  for  breakfast  served,  by  boast. 
Oh,  gay  Montmartre  was  out-romanced, 
When  Sally  danced. 

There  Billy  Dwyer  and  Happy  Jack 
Encompassed  ends  by  faro  stack 
To  tinkling  banjos,  twinkling  feet 
In  Jackson  Street. 

Ah,  what  a  bosom  pair  they  were! 
Bland  Happy,  trousers  lavender, 
Impeccable  of  creamy  spat 
And  silk  of  hat; 

And  Billy,  though  no  looking-glass, 
The  Damon  of  his  Pythias. 
Twas  yonder  Billy  ebbed  his  life 
On  Happy's  knife; 

And  yonder  Cowboy  Maggie  wrought 
One  man  to  death,  another  shot — 
Some  faint-of-heart  procrastinator 
She  wedded  later. 


13 


When  Sally  danced,  the  Quarter  knew 
Its  What  Cheer  House,  its  Avenue; 
Though  haunts  have  changed,  events  have  chanced, 
Since  Sally  danced. 

Oh  where,  relict  of  other  ages, 
Roll  now  those  brilliant  equipages, 
Blocking  doors,  betore  the  Fire, 
For  Bottle  Meyer? 

Then  chance  had  picked  and  art  arrayed, 
And  Comstock  riches  freshly  made 
Of  Kearny  Street  a  Roman  path 
To  Zeile's  bath. 

Within  a  Bush  Street  theater 
Belasco,  Warfield  call-boys  were; 
And  Booth,  McCullough,  Barrett,  Kean 
Were  nightly  seen. 

When  Sally  danced,  the  place  to  go 
Tortoni's  was,  before  the  show; 
And  afterward,  the  demi-monde 
Acclaimed  Marchand. 

Ah,  Sally!     Though  another  aeon 
Prevails  in  fields  terpsichorean, 
And  far  indeed  we  have  advanced 
Since  thus  you  danced, 

Yet  when  was  dancer  ever  gayer 
Than  Bella  Union's  Sally  Thayer  ? 
Or  who,  of  modern  days,  might  cope 
With  Ida  Siddons  skipping  rope? 
Or  who,  for  elemental  fun, 


14 


With  merry  Fanny  Garretson? 

Though  like  Lot's  wife  we've  Sodom  fled 

Yet  backward  glanced, 
Pray,  have  we  then  so  profited 

Since  Sally  danced? 
Since  Sally  danced,  erotic  maid, 

And  Lotta  played? 


LOTTA'S  FOUNTAIN 

Lotta!     Lapse  of  years  withal, 
How  your  star  theatrical 

Sparkled  once  with  ardor; 
How  your  dozenth  curtain  call 

But  provoked  the  harder! 
Yesterday  they  loved  you  well, 
Marchioness  or  Little  Nell! 
Yesterday,  indeed;   but  who 
Bothers  now  to  think  of  you? 

Once  you,  Lotta,  girlish,  fair, 

Caught  their  flowers,  protesting, 

Blowing  kisses  to  the  air; 

And,  attesting  such  affair, 
Earnestly  yet  jesting 

Placed  you  fount  where  Kearny  meets 

Market,  Third,  and  Geary  Streets. 

Years  how  fateful,  fogs  how  cold, 
Round  that  fountain  since  have  rolled,- 

Summers  waned  a-weary, 
Since  its  shaft  turned  mossy,  old! 
Yet  the  sunset  still  her  gold 

Flings  at  it  down  Geary; 
New  Year  still,  with  romping  feet, 
Dances  past  up  Market  Street; 
Round  by  round,  Homeric  fights, 
Bulletined  election  nights, 
Wars  and  harbingers  of  wars, 
Christmas  Eves  beneath  the  stars, 
Carnival  and  traffic,  all 
Round  have  swung  centripetal. 

One  day,  then,  a  little  old 
Lady  from  a  journey 


16 


Murmured:     "Pardon,  sir;  'tis  bold, 

But  the  city's  changed,  I'm  told." 

So  I  pointed  out  to  her 

Where  the  Baldwin  Theater 

And  her  vanished  landmarks  were. 

Then  she  sighed,  and  asked:     "And  where 

Market  crosses  Kearny, 
Stands  by  chance  a  fountain  there?" 

Stands  a  fountain?     Rather,  say, 
Stands  Goat  Island  or  the  Bay, 

Chinatown  or  Mission! 
So  I  tutored  her  straightway 

In  the  town's  tradition. 
Then  she  smiled,  and  whispered  low: 
"I  am  Lotta  Crabtree."     Though, 
How  was  anyone  to  know? 


17 


STREET  OF  THE  ADVENTURERS 

Here,  tradition  still  avers, 
Loiter  the  adventurers, 
Waiting  call  to  high  emprise 
Off  where  buried  treasure  lies. 
Flotsam  of  the  seven  seas, 
Combers  of  the  beaches  these, 
Blown  from  every  coco-isle, 
Bide  they  here  awhile ; 
Bide  they  till  some  pinnace  shoves 
Off  for  further  treasure-troves. 

Once  the  captain  of  them  all 
Tarried  by  this  plaza  wall, 
Pondering,  with  dreaming  eyes, 

Sea-borne  enterprise; 
One  who  now  forever  dwells 
In  the  murmur  of  his  swells, 
Port  attained,  adventure  won — 
Dreamy,  restless  Stevenson. 

But  the  others — who  are  they, 
Into  twilight  sailed  away, 
Into  purple  mist,  that  thus 
Mantles  the  adventurous? 
Years  agone  and  years  anew 
Ships  this  grim,  persistent  crew; 
Winds  agone  and  winds  to  be 

Blow  them  far  to  sea. 
Yet  the  winds,  returning,  greet 
Ever  these  in  Kearny  Street. 


18 


POWELL  STREET 

A  lane  there  is,  when  daylight  dies, 
Of  piquant  lips  and  laughing  eyes; 

A  lane  that  calls  the  season's  bloom 
Beside  her  curb  in  quaint  perfume; 

That  all  unheralded,  unsung, 
Grows  nightly  old,  yet  ever  young. 

This  Street  of  Youth  is  short,  at  best; 
Three  blocks,  then  alters  interest. 

Her  shops  are  small;   she  scarce  invites 
With  window-shows  or  blaze  of  lights. 

Yet,  brief  of  span  or  short  of  bards, 
She  breathes  of  Old  World  boulevards, 

And,  eight  to  twelve,  attains  delight 
In  breaking  petals  with  the  night. 

Scant  Street  of  Youth!      What  frail  romance 
In  coquetry,  in  passing   glance — 

In  swing  of  ankle,  curve  of  cheek, 
And  lashes  half  inclined  to  speak, 

Here  proffer  folly,  venture  charm 
To  snatch  a  moment  arm-in-arm! 

From  eight  to  twelve:   so  swiftly  fade 
The  hues  along  this  promenade. 


19 


ihen  stars  turn  chill,  then  lights  grow  brusque 
To  this  rialto  of  the  dusk. 

The  play  is  spent,  the  night  soon  old, 
The  cafes  out,  the  flowers  sold, 

The  taxis  gone,  the  sidewalks  bare 
From  Eddy  Street  to  Union  Square. 

Yet  is  there  one  you  seek  to  meet? 
Ihen  come  tonight  to  Powell  Street. 


OTARRELL  STREET 

What  was  that  show  of  Belasco's? — grace 
Keeping  a  barroom;   a  play  of  gun, 
Bandit  and  sheriff  in  headlong  race, 

Lather  and  leather  and  hearts  undone, 
Till,  with  a  flourish,  the  girld  an  ace 

Drew  from  her  boot,  and  the  game  was  won? 

Yonder  the  pines  and  the  peaks  attest 
Staunchly  that  "Girl  of  the  Golden  West." 

What  was  that  play  of  the  days  Bret  Harte 

Painted  with  luminous  pigments,  till 
Miners  and  mountebanks,  kings  apart, 

Strode  through  the  wilderness  at  his  will? 
Freshets  of  spring  at  the  memory  start; 
Perfumed  azaleas  seem  blooming  still. 

Yonder  the  pools  and  the  peaks  remain; 
Where  then,  v/here  are  you,  "Samanthy  Jane"? 

There  was  another;   it  sent  a  gleam 
Hot  as  a  sunset  across  the  stage. 
"Rose  of  the  Rancho" !     Did  Tully  dream, 

Or  was  it  all  of  a  golden  age 
Sinking  in  purple  and  dusk,  that  theme 
Drawn  from  a  Mexican  heritage? 

Yonder  the  redolent  tarweed  blows 

Where  you  once  flourished,  forgotten  Rose. 

So,  though  the  picturesque  Argonaut 

Hitches  no  wagon  to  westward  star, 
Through  the  days  epic  are  near  forgot, 

Nights  once  Homeric  grown  very  far, 
Still  have  their  colors  been  faintly  caught, 
Still  remain  stock  and  the  Alcazar. 

Up  with  the  curtain!     Let  present  meet 
Gravely  the  past  in  O'Farrell  Street! 


21 


"ROSE  OF  THE  RANCHO" 

When  Paloma  plaintive  plays, 
And  the  Rose  of  old  portrays 

History  'neath  her  curtain, 
Live  those  magic  Spanish  days 

Dim  no  more,  but  certain — 
Days  of  dulcetness  and  drouth 
On  a  white  road  reaching  south. 

Then,  within  the  Alcazar, 
Leaps  fandango,  sweeps  guitar, 

Trip  again  the  Forties 
With  their  tilts  at  love  and  war, 

Feuds,  surprises,  sorties — 
All  the  trappings  that  recall 
California  pastoral. 

Tully  tells  me,  in  the  wings, 
That  he  placed  his  happenings 

At  San  Juan  Bautista; 
That  Belasco  added  things 

To  enhance  the  vista, 
Where  no  daring  brush  could  paint 
Life  too  vivid,  love  too  quaint. 

Long-horn  cattle,  where  are  they? 
Silver  spurs  that  yesterday 

Set  fiestas  jingling? 
Padras  grave,  senoras  gay, 

Gringoes  intermingling, 
While  the  neophytes  of  old 
Toiled  afield,  and  matins  tolled? 


22 


With  the  legends!     For  them  all 
Croons  Juanita  now.    Her  shawl 

Slowly  fades  and  ravels. 
Still  the  pear  buds  bloom  and  fall, 

Still  the  white  road  travels, 
Jingling  yet  with  bit  and  spur 
South  and  north,  but  not  to  her. 

Nay,  Juanita,  not  this  sigh! 
Roses  still  are  climbing  by, 

Bells  are  stirring  gently. 
White  the  moon-drenched  arches  lie, 

Waiting,  evidently. 
Wake!  and  live  again  the  day 
Love  and  music  rode  this  way. 

Soft,  beside  your  Mission  well, 

Pluck  your  strings  and  weave  your  spell, 

Scenes  forgot  arousing, 
Where  in  truth  but  ruins  dwell, 

Half  a  century  drowsing. 
Bid  adventure,  past  and  gone, 
Tread  your  garden  at  San  Juan! 


23 


IN  A  GARDEN 

Above,  the  moon.     See,  Father  Angelo, 

These  limped  walls,  bathed  whiter  than  they  are, 

And  roof  tiles  sagging?    Here,  man,  long  ago, 

(Tis  through  some  gate  of  memory,  left  ajar 

As  this  one  now,  to  tangled  patio), — 

I  heard  the  strumming  of  an  old  guitar. 

I  heard  a  voice:  'twas  from  a  balcony, 

And  strangely  sweet.     Ah,  saints,  the  things  we  do: 
I  paused,  though  monk,  beneath  this  very  tree! 

Of  ladies  gay,  and  caballeros  true, 
And  love,  and  laughter,  sang  one  down  to  me ; 

Though  tears  were  in  it,  tears  and  laughter  too. 

You  falter,  priest?    Then  take  my  arm:   'tis  thus 

We'll  stroll  the  vine-grown  spot.     How  memories  live, 

And  odors  of  the  night  bring  back  to  us 
What  fifty  years  had  banished  fugitive, 

Till  white-haired  monks  by  moon  grow  garrulous!  — 
She  thought  I  was  another.    Saints  forgive! 

And  I  ?    Nay,  hear  me ;  'tis  a  monstrous  thing. 

Though  you  kept  cell  that  night,  the  world  was  wide; 
Nor  heard  I  vesper's  distant  murmuring, 

Nor  heeded  vows  and  cassock  mortified. 
The  night  and  I  were  young.     I  gave  a  swing, 

And  climbed  through  roses  to  the  lady's  side. 

Those  chinking  chords,  how  yet  they  sweep  and  swell! 

Those  songs  of  men  that,  acolyte,  I  heard! 
How  strange  the  weaving  night,  to  net  its  spell 

On  maid  forlorn,  and  monk  from  beads  deterred! 
(Though  long  the  nights  I've  wrested,  in  my  cell.) 

And  here,  where's  dark,  another  came;  nor  stirred. 


24 


You  stumble,  Angelo?    Why,  then,  your  wrist; 

This  path  is  deep  indeed  in  disrepair. 
Yet  praise  the  saints,  meek  priest,  for  all  you've  missed; 

Tis  reconciling  to  a  life  of  prayer 
To've  sorrowed  ne'er  for  sin  of  stolen  tryst, 

Or  scent  of  roses  in  a  woman's  hair. 

Nay,  palsied  priest!     The  years  thick-matted  lie; 

Pick  up  your  stick;  let  fall  your  .pious  hand. 
You've  turned  the  wintry  lane;  no  less  have  I. 

Yet  mark:     I'll  warrant,  ere  your  Mays  were  spanned, 
A  gallant  youth,  though  churchly,  swaggered  by! 

Protest  you  so?     Well,  then,  we'll  let  it  stand. 

But  ah,  those  tantalizing  chants  she  sung, 

Though  ears  of  mine  ill  served  that  lent  them  grace; 
Those  parted  lips;  those  piquant  glances  flung, 

Yet  instrument  that  always  foiled  embrace! 
Now  Mother  of  God!     I've  cast  from  beads  among, 

To  see  on  Holy  Crucifix,  that  face. 

Ay,  Angelo,  there's  madness  loose  by  night. 

This  moon:     there's  much,  that  goes  untold,  it  sees. 
Her  strings  crashed  harsh.     A  scream,  a  stab  of  light, 

And  she  sank  coughing,  choking  to  her  knees. 
Now  Jesu  judge  this  guilty  three  aright, 

Since  she  must  pass,  who  sinned  the  least  of  these. 

Ay,  priest,  'tis  growing  late.     Yet  note:   a  doubt, 
Past  all  stern  reason,  in  that  night  began. 

I'll  purge  it  now.     This  fellow  whipped  about; 
Yon  moon,  that  glimmered  on  him  as  he  ran, 


25 


Pell — so.     And  now  the  gibbering  thing  is  out: 

To  candles!     Thought  vour  secret  buried,  man? 


And  she?    Ah,  well,  the  night's  disquieting. 

Tis  by;  the  mouldy  thing's  best  Angelo's. 
On  yonder  tiles  new  bloom  is  rioting. 

Her  lattice  bangs  for  every  breeze  that  blows. 
I'll  break  this  bit  of  fragrance,  wet  with  spring. 

There's  perfume  in  it  of  an  old,  old  rose. 


26 


THE  TRADE  WIND 

In  from  the  West,  with  open  breast, 

Aeola  danced  one  day; 
Laughing  her  lips,  and  her  color  high, 

Laughing  her  eyes,  and  gray; 
Free  on  the  air  as  her  floating  hair 

Fluttered  a  wraith  of  gown; 
Aeola  danced  through  the  Gate  one  day — 

Lo,  and  the  fog  shut  down. 

Lo,  and  the  fog  shut  wide  and  thick; 

Gone  were  the  island  heights; 
Blaspheming  craft  through  the  murk  slid  past; 

Glimmered  the  riding-lights; 
Gone  were  the  hills,  and  the  city's  streets 

Groped  in  uncertainty, 
Swallowing  gloom  with  the  salt  perfume 

Spumed  by  the  hale  old  sea. 

Aeola  laughed  at  each  bumping  craft 

Blundering  on  the  tide; 
Laughed  at  the  awnings  that  sagged  and  dripped, 

Laughed  at  the  lights  inside; 
Laughed,  and  in  access  of  modesty 

Gathered  her  veils  about — 
Lo,  and  the  ships  at  the  bar  stood  home, 

Ships  for  the  sea  stood  out. 


27 


PICTURE  BRIDES 

Cherry  petals  from  Japan, 

Brides  from  windward  flocking, 
Each  as  pretty  as  a  fan, 

And  as  madly  mocking, 
Far,  now  far  from  Fuji  San 

Is  your  steamer  docking. 

Each  on  pilgrimage  of  love, 

Wondering,  elated, — 
Each  the  wedded  helpmeet  of 

Bridegroom  picture-mated, 
Peeps,  a  dainty  treasure  trove, 

For  the  husband  fated. 

Fragile  bits  of  cloisonne, 
Vases  quaint,  exquisite, 

Banzai!     Tarry  here  a  day 
On  a  maiden  visit. 

Nay,  the  husbands  urge?     Then  say 
Which,  oh  which  one  is  it? 

Now  the  husbands  brisk  appear 
Up  the  plank  unruffled. 

Ah,  the  meetings  that  endear, 
Greetings  shy  and  muffled! 

Ah,  if  husbands  at  the  pier 
Got  the  pictures  shuffled! 


28 


"S.  S.  CHINA,  SAN  FRANCISCO" 

(One   hundred  and  fifty  voyages  across  the  Pacific) 

When  last  the  watch,  when  burn  the  side-lights  dim, 

Past  seven  bells,  no  "scrapped  for  copper"  she. 
A  better  port  she'll  seek  on  some  far  rim. 

And  as  toward  first  Alohas,  full  and  free, 

Toward  leis  of  greeting,  lines  still  true  and  trim 
And  masts  aslant,  she'll  settle  to  the  sea. 

Then  wind  and  sun  will  scour  her  empty  lane, 

The  gulls  will  search  the  swells  she  used  to  dip. 
Ay,  parting  leis  will  wait  for  her  in  vain. 

So  into  port,  eight  bells  unstruck,  she'll  slip. 

And  those  who  know  the  docks,  nor  find  again 
Her  like,  will  mutter:     "Ay.    There  went  a  ship." 


29 


LAND'S  END 

I  watch  the  skirts  of  evening  catch 

The  molten  flames  of  Pele, 
And  almost  hear  a  wind-borne  snatch 
Of  mid-Pacific  tarepatch, 
Or  throb  of  ukulele. 

I  watch  the  staunch  old  "China",  link 

With  isles  Kamehamehan, 
To  westward  wing,  and  on  the  brink 
Of  sunset  pause,  then  hull-down  sink 
In  lava  Kilauean. 

I  wonder  if,  when  time  began, 

In  fluid  days  and  olden, 
Some  bridge  was  not  designed  to  span 
This  shore  to  isles  Oahuan, 

Those  coral  coasts  to  golden. 

So  kindred  are  they,  each  to  each, 

The  very  tide  that  ferries 
This  idle  flotsam  out  of  reach, 
Returning,  casts  upon  the  beach 
Some  wild  ohelo  berries. 


30 


THE  LEGEND  OF  TAMALPAIS 

(Tamalpais,   the   mountain   which   rises  above  San  Francisco  Bay,  present* 
to   the  cities   below   the  silhouette  of  a  sleeping  maid.) 


Maid  of  the  silent  hills,  the  sea  turns  gray. 

Up  from  the  eastern  rim  the  torch  of  dawn 
Kindles  the  clouds,  and  lights  the  lapping  Bay. 
Out  of  a  wind-brushed  sky  the  stars  are  gone; 
Down  the  long  glens  the  tints  of  morning  creep. 
Still  in  a  waging  world  you  slumber  on, 
Careless  of  day,  in  dreams  long  ages  deep. 

Maid  of  the  hills,  what  ancient  legend  bids  you  sleep  P 

Flocks  lay  dead  on  the  hillside, 

Forests  were  brown  and  dry, 
And  the  sun  beat  over,  relentless, 

Fixed  in  a  copper  sky. 
"0  warrior  chief  of  the  Tamals, 

Yield — we  are  sore  afraid ! " 
"Not  till  the  hills  are  melted 

Will  I  yield  up  the  mountain  maid!" 

"Yield  to  the  wrathful  sun-god!" 

"Not  till  the  sea  runs  dry!" 
"But  our  flocks  from  the  snows  of  Shasta 

Lie  dead  to  Tehachepi." 
"Fit  my  canoe  then  for  battle, 

Fetch  then  my  arms  to  me!" 
Alone  on   the  Bay  he  ventured, 

And  struck  for  the  open  sea. 

Far  to  the  West  he  paddled, 

Near  the  circling  edge  of  the  world, 


31 


Where  rocks  still  jut  from  the  ocean 

Tis  said  that  he  grasped  and  hurled; 

Weary  and  long  raged  the  battle, — 
Shoreward  then  rose  a  cry, 

For  blood  ran  the  heavens  from  Shasta 
To  burning  Tehachepi. 

Into  the  seething  ocean, 

Over  the  blistering  rim, 
Vanished  the  sun;   and  the  warrior, 

Harried  and  followed  him. 
"0  warrior  chief  of  the  Tamals, 

Hailing,  we  wait  for  thee!" 
But  the  maiden  knelt  on  her  hill-crest, 

And  strained  to  the  open  sea. 

Dark  grew  the  lapping  waters. 

Strangely  the  hills  turned  gray. 
Night  first  came  to  the  Tamals; 

Vast  was  their  new  dismay. 
"Lo,  he  has  slain  the  sun-god; 

Where  will  a  torch  now  burn?" 
"Lo,  he  is  lost  on  the  waters, 

My  love,  and  he'll  ne'er  return!" 

So  on  the  hill  they  found  her, 

Though  in  twilight  the  sea  lay  blurred; 
And  they  spoke,  and  gently  they  shook  her, 

But  she  answered  never  a  word. 
Then  under  the  stars'  first  gleaming, 

With  her  face  still  turned  to  the  West, 
Alone  on  the  darkening  mountain, 

They  laid  her  away  to  rest. 


32 


Over  the  edge  of  the  ocean 

Slipped  the  lost  warrior  then, 
And  a  strange  orb,  rising  and  setting, 

Trailed  her  new  light  over  men. 
Stars  came  and  went  from  the  heavens, 

Glittering,  one  by  one, 
When  lo,  from  an  East  resplendent, 

Arose  the  resurgent  sun. 

They  say  Mother  Nature,  weeping, 

Shed  over  the  sad  land  rain, 
That  brooks  to  the  sea  fell  splashing, 

And  forests  turned  green  again; 
That  thus  burn  the  hills  in  summer, 

That  so  weep  the  winter  skies, 
Though  the  Tamals  long  have  departed 

For  forests  of  Paradise. 

Yet,  when  the  evening  shadows 

Long  in  the  canyons  lie, 
When,  over  waiting  waters, 

Red  is  the  western  sky, 
When,  under  closing  twilight, 

Red  are  the  hills,  and  fade, 
Tis  but  the  sun-god,  dying, 

Kissing  the  sleeping  maid. 

So  she  will  lie  in  slumber, 

Turned  to  the  darkening  West, 
Veiled  by  the  mists  at  evening, 

Soft  by  the  night  caressed, 
Cooled  by  the  winds  in  summer, 

Lashed  by  the  winter's  rain, 
Till  her  lover,  lost  on  the  ocean, 

Comes  from  the  West  again. 


33 


Maid  of  the  mountain,  sleep.      The  shadows  fall, 
Now  is  your  age-long  whispered  story  told. 
Over  your  head  the  circling  night-birds  call. 
Dark  turn  the  canyon  pines.      The  sea  grows  cold; 
In  from  the  open  West  soft  mists,  unrolled, 
Down  the  long  yellow  hills  of  evening  creep, 
Veiling  your  form  in  purple,  as  of  old. 
Lights  pric^  the  valley.     Canyon  glens  grow  deep. 

Night  is  at  hand,  and  silence.     Maid  of  the  mountain,  sleep. 


34 


THE  FOG 

I  was  with  Drake. 

While  his  corvette  tarried 
Grim  in  the  wake 

Of  a  Spain  long  harried, 
Closed  I  the  Break 

To  the  crew  he  carried. 

(Closed  I  the  Break 

In  the  coast,  and  parried 
Skillfully  Drake.) 

Held  I  the  Breach, 

Though  the  trade  winds,  blowing, 
Oft  would  beseech, 

Or  a  sail  unknowing 
Pass  within  reach 

Where  were  wild  flowers  growing. 

(Dunes  of  the  beach 

And  my  poppies  blowing, 
Held  we  the  Breach.) 

Age-long  adrift 

Where  the  Bay  tides  nestle, 
Naught  but  the  thrift 

Or  a  TamaPs  pestle 
Heard  I,  when  swift 

Chanced  Ayala's  vessel. 

(Scarce  did  I  lift, 

Yet  his  tiny  vessel 
Plunged  through  the  Rift.) 

Followed  then  flocks 

Of  a  padre's  tending; 


35 


Lo,  then  an  ox 

From  the  far  plains  wending: 
Cities  sprang,  docks 

And  a  noise  unending. 

(Ah,  for  the  flocks 

And  the  hills  extending; 
Miss  I  the  flocks.) 

I  was  astir 

When  the  Rio,  routed, 
Sank  in  the  blur 

Of  the  Gate  she  flouted. 
Reckless  it  were 

That  my  Gate  be  doubted. 

(Who  recalls  her? 

Like  my  poppies,  routed, 
Lost  in  the  blur?) 

Though,  when  the  shrift 

Of  these  stones  is  over, 
When  the  white  drift 

Of  the  sands  yields  cover, 
Still  shall  I  sift 

Through  the  hills,  and  hover. 

(Still  shall  I  drift, 

Till  my  poppies  cover 
Bright,  where  I  lift.) 


36 


TELEGRAPH  HILL 

Sure,  Mother  Machree  was  your  mother,  Wild  Rose, 

Mavourneen  so  temptin'  and  darin'. 
A  sun  of  the  West  may  be  dryin'  the  clothes, 

But  the  mist  in  your  eye  is  of  Erin. 
The  toss  of  your  head  is  a  manner  as  old, 

Though  for  it,  colleen,  we  adore  you, 
As  any  that  ever  your  sister  Isolde 

Fetched  Tristan  the  centuries  before  you. 

Oh  mists  that  are  Erin,  blow,  blow  for  her  still 
That  lives  at  the  bottom  of  Telegraph  Hill! 

Now  donna  est  mobile!     Eyes  that  were  blue 

Still  laugh,  still  allure,  but  turn  deeper; 
And  color  on  browner  cheeks  heightens  anew 

As  Telegraph  Hill  becomes  steeper; 
As  streets  become  swarming,  till  life  were  a  war 

Of  trouble  and  toil  and  begetting. 
Ah,  Tosca !     Fair  Gilda !     Nay,  sweet  Lammermoor, 

In  what  a  gregarious  setting! 

Ah,  moon  that  is  Naples,  swim  ever,  pef  spill 
Some  bit  of  effulgence  for  Telegraph  Hill! 

Swift  tumble  the  slopes,  till  in  soil  of  today 

A  seed  of  the  past  is  transplanted. 
From  under  the  lanterns  of  younger  Cathay 

One  peeps,  her  cheeks  olive,  eyes  slanted, 
Hands  wistfully  thrust  into  sleeve,  to  perview 

The  trend  of  the  times  through  her  lashes, 
Where  West  becomes  East  and  the  old  becomes  new, 

And  most  of  it  rattles  and  crashes. 

— A  bit  of  old  Canton,  dare,  dream  as  she  will, 
Abroad  in  the  shadow  of  Telegraph  Hill. 


37 


THE  MAGIC  CARPET 

Once,  they  say,  in  dim  Bagdad, 
Caliph  magic  carpet  had, 
Bearing  riders,  land  or  sea, 
Far  from  Araby. 

Though  is  here  no  caliphate, 
Tongues  as  intricate  await: 
Haunts  eccentric,  jaunts  profound, 
Half  the  world  around. 

Come  tonight;  and  be  to  Spain 
Ferried  swift  and  back  again, 
Contemplating,  as  we  will, 
Manners  in  Seville. 

There  indeed  will  gleam  bazaars, 
Loiter  lovers,  thrum  guitars, 
Stout  duennas  take  the  breeze 
From  their  balconies;  — 

Come;  for  half  an  hour  or  so 
Dine  in  France;  a  vintage  know 
Worthy  of  the  sun  that  spills 
Down  her  Lorraine  hills, 

fill,  as  silver  night  appears, 
Lorn  Venitian  gondoliers 
Lift  "Lucia",  though  a  oar 
Drips  the  moon  no  more. 

Or,  should  westward  moon  grow  wan, 
Saunter  shall  we  to  Milan, 
Drinking,  where  true  lover  sits, 
Opera  at  two  bits; 


38 


Though,  in  near  cathedral,  glow 
Candles  of  old  Mexico; 
Through,  from  neighbor  window,  rise 
Tyrol    melodies. 

Coral  coast  or  sunset  isle, 
Sounds  are  swift  and  scents  beguile, 
Till  the  fire-mist  hovers  o'er 
Mauna  Loa's  shore; 

Till,  indeed,  the  shades  refute, 
Broadway's  thousand  tongues  grow  mute, 
Snuffed  her  lanterns,  dark  her  steeps, 
And  the  North  Beach  sleeps. 

Quarter  of  the  called-afar, 
You  the  magic  carpet  are. 
Quainter,  caliph  never  had, 
Back  in  dim  Bagdad. 


39 


NEW  YEAR'S  EVE— THE  CITY 

As  a  poppy,  copper-spun, 
Lifts  her  chalice  to  the  sun 

With  a  dewdrop  in  it, 
Toasts  my  lady  to  the  years: 
Half  in  laughter,  half  in  tears 
As  the  old  love  disappears, 

Sips  to  new  his  minute — 
Drinks  to  new  love,  transient  guest, 
Soon  for  limbo  with  the  rest. 

Madcap  grows  the  folly  thus  ? 
Leaps  the  music  riotous? 

Prodigal  and  merry 
Whirls  my  lady.    Come  what  may, 
Come!   tonight  the  fiddles  play; 
Come!  enough  of  yesterday; 

All  is  momentary, 
All  this  merry,  tragic  stuff 
Tipped  and  shattered,  soon  enough. 

Though,  when  flood  the  tints  of  dawn 
Through  the  windows,  blinds  undrawn, 

Surfeited  and  bitter 
Sobs  my  lady,  raiment  torn, 
Guests  departed,  sunk  forlorn? 
Nay,  a  hostess  to  the  morn 

Laughs  amidst  the  litter, 
As  a  poppy,  day  begun 
Opens  bravely  to  the  sun. 


40 


THE  TIVOLI 

The  Tivoli!     How  ghosts  suffuse 
That  temple  to  ejected  muse! 

Twas  there  that  Martha  sobbed  and  sighed 
In  braver  times;  that  Mimi  died, 

That  Carmen  strutted  vengeful,  gay, 
And  Violetta  pined  away, 

In  days   congenial,   nights   replete 
With  melody  in  Eddy  Street. 

Twas  there,  though  opera  surged  below, 
In  Lovers'  Lane  occurred  the  show; 

That  tables  scraped,  and  half  the  town 
Upon  the  other  half  looked  down ; 

That  souls  of  dual  taste  could  hear 
Their  Tetrazzini  with  their  beer, 

Their  ears  regale,  their  lips  assuage, 
Nor  miss  a  movement  of  the  stage, 

Such  stage  as  now  lies  darkened,  dumb 
Beneath  its  gilt  proscenium. 

Who  now  shall  sketch,  or  quite  appraise, 
That  Tivoli  of  other  days? 

Yet  when  the  City  once  faced  grim 
The  cinders  of  an  interim, 


41 


It  seemed  as  if  could  break  her  heart 
Unless  the  Tivoli  would  start. 

It  seemed:  but  when  above  such  woes 
A  Tivoli  anew  arose, 

The  mirth  seemed  sparkless,  chill  the  song. 
The  torch  had  flickered  out  too  long. 

But  ah,  for  one  more  joyous  strain 
That  used  to  burst  in  Anna  Lane, — 

One  fragment  of  the  glad  encores 

That  used  to  batter  through  the  doors, — 

The  scenes,  the  lights,  the  girls,  the  beer, 
The  old  traditions  blessed,  queer, 

The  memories  fragrant,  echoes  sweet 
Of  vanished  nights  in  Eddy  Street! 


42 


MY  FRIEND  ROSNER 

My  friend  Rosner  says  that  songs, 
Though  of  fashion  fleeting, 

Ne'er  lose  charm,  where  charm  belongs, 
By  repeating; 

Though,  for  thirty  years  or  so, 

He  has  heard  them  come  and  go. 

Rosner  says  that  never  jest, 

In  the  least  deserving, 
Dulls  for  him  in  interest 

By  preserving: 

Gentle  leader,  past  whose  head 
Shafts  these  thirty  years  have  sped. 

Rosner!     Were  the  stars  all  known, 

Lucent  and  subsided, 
Whom  your  raised  baton  alone 

Safe  has  guided 
From  horizon  to  the  heights, 
What  a  host  of  gleam-by-nights! 

Does  a  jester  fail  to  score? 

Rosner's  head,  instanter, 
Rears  its  arid  summit,  for 

Him  to  banter. 
Does  a  prima  donna  flat? 
Rosner's  fiddles  bolster  that. 
Does  a  tumbler  overreach? 
Swift  his  trombones  to  the  breach ! 
Snaps  a  virtuoso's  string? 
Throbs  his  organ,  succoring 


Then,    one   night,   the   Orpheum 
Found  his  organ  closed  and  dumb. 


43 


Dumb?    Perhaps.     But  somehow  grief 

Limns  another  vision, 
And  he's  but  stepped  down,  this  brief 

Intermission — 
He,  perpetuate  for  whom 
Jests  their  flavor,  songs  their  bloom. 

Maybe,  when  the  lights  are  low, 

Actor-shadows  linger 
In  the  wings,  where  grins  Pierrot, 

Pointing  finger, 
And  the  stars  of  other  days 
Sing  the  ballads  Rosner  plays. 


44 


BARBARY  COAST 

I  wandered  into  a  dive  one  night. 

Though  tarnished  the  front  facade, 
A  welcome  struggled  still  bravely  bright, 

And  still  a  piano  played. 
And  one  came  over  with  beard  as  white 

As  foam  on  a  stein,  who  said: 

"Where  are  the  folks  tonight,  Stranger?    Things 

Seem  rather  quiet  here." 
Gone  where  the  uttermost  welkin  rings, 

Gone  with  the  pesferpear/ 

"Where  is  that  den  of  the  old  North  Beach, 

Kippered  in  ale  and  smoke, 
Where  Jack  the  Ripper,  with  horrid  screech, 

Nightly  the  dead  awoke? 
Wine  flowed  as  water;   the  waiters  each 

Carried  a  wagon  spoke. 

"What  has  become  of  the  sights  of  yore, 

The  singers  of  yesterday?" 
Gone  with  the  wings  of  a  last  encore, 

Gone  as  a  flung  bouquet! 

"Where  are  the  cronies  I  used  to  meet, 

Rallied  from  near  and  far, 
Swapping  the  tales  of  the  whaling  fleet 

Snug  at  the  Bowhead  Bar? 
Answer  me,  Stranger,  I'll  fair  entreat: 

Tell  where  my  shipmates  are ! " 

Where  are  the  winds  of  the  vast  uncruised, 
The  lights  of  the  unseen  beach? 


45 


Where  are  the  Bap's  blue  tides,  thai  used 
Once  to  Montgomery  reach? 

Then  he  observed,  though  his  beard  was  white, 

Past  his  allotted  span, 
"Sailor  or  cowpuncher,  set  me  right: 

Preacher  or  mining  man, 
What  of  that  queen  of  Egyptian  night, 

What  of  the  glad  can-can? 

"Where  are  the  lasses  I  used  to  know, 

The  dollar-a-bottle  beer?" 
Cone  with  the  ghosts  of  the  long  ago, 

Cone  with  the  last  frontier. 


46 


THE  KISS 

All  right,  I  killed  him.    Well,  and  who's  to  fret? 

A  girl  can't  swing  for  tryin'  suicide! 

I  tell  you  that  he  fought  me  for  the  thing, 

Just  fought  me  for  it.    Nice  place  this,  to  bring 

A  girl  to,  ain't  it?     Gimme  a  cigarette. 

You  say  you  write  police  news  ?    Say,  you've  got 

A  pull  here,  haven't  you,  some  drag  inside 

To  get  a  girl  some  coke?    My  nerves  is  shot; 

I  haven't  slept  a  minute  since  he  died, 

Right  in  my  arms.    Aw,  why  keep  questioning 

A  girl  for  stuff  she's  tryin'  to  forget? 

All  right,  I'll  spill  the  story;  though  I'll  bet 

That  jailer's  ugly  ear  is  at  the  door. 

I  loved  him.     That's  the  truth,  as  God's  my  store. 
I  loved  him  as  a  woman  loves,  who'd  fling 
Her  soul  to  hell,  with  life  and  body,  for 
One  hour  of  happiness. 

All  right,  I'll  swing. 

I  tell  you  that  I  loved  him.    That  is,  till 
I  watched  him  an'  this  other  girl  go  by, 
Out  on  the  dance  floor  there ;  an'  passin',  I 
Heard  what  he  said.    Then  sounds  an'  things  went  still, 
Somethin'  just  seemed  to  snap.     I  don't  know  what, 
Somethin'  just  seemed  to  snap. 

Ah,  why  do  you 
Try  to  ask  questions?    Ain't  my  nerves  been  shot? 

All  I  know  is,  it  seemed  the  lights  went  out. 
I  went  on  dancin',  yes;  or  moved  about 


47 


In  twilight,  sort  o';    but  for  me,  I  knew 
The  dance  was  over,  and  the  music  through. 

I  got  it.     In  a  capsule.     Never  mind 
Askin'  me  how — just  take  it  as  you  find: 
I  got  it. 

Then,  although  I'd  had  my  hour, 
Knowin',  for  me,  the  honey  all  was  sipped, 
The  summer  gone,  an'  me  the  wilted  flower, 
I  couldn't  do  it.     God,  if  only  I'd 
Swallowed  that  little  capsule  when  I  tried! 
I  couldn't  die!     I  just,  just  couldn't  die! 

Then  he  came  whistlin'  past.    The  floor  was  bare, 
Someone  was  settin'  chairs  an'  sweepin'  out. 
"Mollie",  he  murmured  when  he  seen  me  there, 
"Mollie!"  he  cried,  "What's  all  the  row  about?" 

I  couldn't  answer.     Hadn't  I  just  tried 
To  die? 

An'  then  I  felt  his  sleeve,  his  coat 
Pressin'  me  close.     "Kid,  give  us  just  a  kiss, 
Just  one,  one  kiss,"  he  whispered.     And  I  tried, 
Fightin',  to  shove  him  off.     But  then  he  lied, 
Lied  with  his  lips  about  this  girl  o'  his. 
And  I?     You  wonder  at  the  woman  of  it? 
When  I  turned  up  my  face  to  his,  I'd  slipped 
The  capsule  to  my  tongue.     If  dreams  could  quit! 
A  second  more,  he'd  kissed  me.     "Kid,  I  love  it, 
Honest,  Kid — ".     An'  then  his  eyes  grew  wide; 
"The  sugar  on  your  lips — ".    He  caught  his  throat, 


48 


Staggered,  and  sank.    I  guess  you  gather  it; 
The  sugar  on  my  lips  was  cyanide. 

An' I?    Well,  ain't  I  here? 

I  thought  you  spoke. 

Faugh,  what  a  cigarette!     I  can't  taste  smoke. 
The  coke!     Oh,  God,  kid,  get  it  quick!     The  coke! 


MARKET  AND  KEARNY 

Violet',  lady?     Thees-a  ones, 
Fresh-a  so  and  merry, 

Only  ten-a  cent'  the  bunch. 
Jonquil'?      Huckleberry? 

Sweet   acacia?      Almond   bloss', 
Firs'  of  February? 

Orchid',  miss?     Or  what  you  call 

Don'-f  orget-a-me's  ? 
Fifteen  cent'!     Ah,  take  the  bunch, 

Such  a  handful  these! 
I  will  not  forget-a  you; 

Come  tomorra,  please! 


50 


BUSH  STREET 

Millicent  her  lattice  flung 

To  the  day's  advance, 
And  the  morning  mirrored  hung 

In  her  radiance. 
Soon  adorable  she  looked 

As  the  gods  could  wish, 
While  a  trifling  breakfast  cooked 

In  its  chafing  dish. 

Millicent  the  flowers  arranged, 

Put  the  dishes  back, 
Had  the  goldfish  water  changed, 

Touched  the  bric-a-brac, 
Ordered  something  from  the  store, 

There !     the  day's  complete — 
What  a  gorgeous  morning  for 

Doing  Geary  Street! 


GEARY  STREET— ELEVEN  A.  M. 

Millicent  in  foxes*  fur, 

Millicent  and  muff, 
(They  were  but  a  part  of  her, 

For  'twas  mild  enough), — 
Millicent,  from  clever  head 

Trim  to  stylish  feet, 
Window-shopped  and  visited, 

Doing  Geary  Street. 

Millicent,  approving,  passed 

Millicents  galore, 
Each  as  different  from  the  last 

As  the  buds  she  wore; 
Each  unlike,  to  all  intents, 

As  a  rose  from  rose. 
Fragrant  lane  of  Millicents, 

What  a  garden  blows! 


52 


GRANT  AVENUE 

Fog:     and  skies  yet  duller, 

Wind:   and  rains  descend — 
Here  engenders  color, 

Here  the  rainbows  end. 
Sun:    and  breezes  vagrant, 

Seeking  boughs  of  spring, 
Stir  a  bud  as  fragrant  — 

Fashion's  opening. 

Morn:     milady  fingers 

Modes  to  break  the  heart. 
Noon:   and  still  she  lingers 

By  the  flower  mart. 
Night:  milady,  dancing 

Many   miles   away, 
Wears  the  things  entrancing 

That  she  bought  today. 

Vale  of  lovely  women, 

Haunt  of  hearts-at-sleeve, 
Here,  by  every  omen, 

Shall  the  gods  retrieve; 
Here,  though  world  the  darkling 

Wine  glass  push  aside, 
Shall  a  bead  leap  sparkling, 

Shall  a  bloom  abide. 


53 


MASON  STREET— ELEVEN  P.  M. 

Spangles  flashing,  slippers  twinkling, 
Round  and  round  she  goes, 

To  the  mad  piano's  tinkling, 
On  her  tippy-toes. 

Waiter!     Has  the  girl  no  inkling 
Of  the  word  repose? 

Flagellate  'em!     Fast,  Professor, 

Beat  the  ivories  hard! 
Never  pace  a  minute  lesser, 

While  the  night  is  starred. 
Waiter!     Who's  the  giddy  dresser 

Glancing  hitherward? 

Cheek  allures  and  lips  abet  it. 

Mistress  with  the  eyes, 
Speak  then :  do  we  pirouette  it 

Where  the  sachet  flies? 
Ah,  the  prospect  dazzles?  Let  it! 

Evening  star,  arise! 

Psyche's  nearest  rival,  spritely 

Condiment  of  art, 
Hug,  oh  hug  me  not  so  tightly. 

Let  me  breathe,  dear  heart. 
Less  inured  am  I  to  nightly 

Passion  a  la  carte. 

Listen,  Circe's  little  sister, 

Once  embraced,  endeared: 

You  have  scorched  my  soul;   I  blister, 
Even  as  I  feared. 

Waiter!     Chasers  two!     I  kissed  her, 
And  it  tasted  weird. 


54 


Pound  the  box,  Professor!     Shocking 
Though  the  modern  Eve, 

And  a  lady's  lost  her  stocking, 
I  decline  to  leave. 

What,  the  hour  so  soon  for  locking? 
Halts    all    make-believe? 

Gently,  waiter.     Friend,   confessor, 
Where's  the  sidewalk,  please? 

Hail,  the  honest  milkman!     Yessir, 
Morning  air  agrees. 

Man!   but  couldn't  that  professor 
Castigate  those  keys? 


55 


MARDI  GRAS 

Mardi  Gras!   While  sweep  the  strings, 
History  in  pageant  springs 

From  her  crowded  pages 
With  the  sunset's  colorings 

And  the   lore  of  ages. 
Reign,  anacronism;   call, 
Motley,  to  the  brilliant  hall ! 

Bandit  of  the  coach  express, 
Gambler  of  the  Fifties, — yes, 

Somber  Vigilante, 
Greet,  and  ancient  differences 

Purge  in  red  Chianti. 
Ho,  Don  Gasper,  dip  with  bliss 
Your  Castilian  beard  in  this! 

Monk,  whose  lips  communion  bold 
With  Senora's  covet,  hold! 

Saintlier  and  moister 
Were  this  purple  vintage,  old 

As  a  Mission  cloister. 
Pour,  yet  pour ;  for  good  and  all 
Soon  'twill  be  apocryphal. 

Throb  then,  'cellos,  summon  drums: 
Caballero,  haste!  nor  strums 

Cadence  thus  manana. 
Nay,  too  late!     The  Gringo  comes, 

Cowman  in  bandana, 
Sweeping  seven-gallon  hat 
To  the  Girl  of  Poker  Flat. 


56 


Senorita,  breathless  flirt, 

Close  your  fan  and  gather  skirt. 

Hither  strides  a  miner, 
By  his  boots  and  colored  shirt 

Clearly  Forty-niner. 
Come!    from  pages  of  romance 
Step,  and  show  how  Spain  could  dance. 

— So,  in  pageantry  expressed, 
Splash  the  colors  of  the  West 

In  a  merry  blending. 
Though,  with  final  vintage  pressed, 

Were  it,  think  you,  ending? 
Past  and  done  the  Things  that  Are, 
With  mantilla  and  guitar? 


57 


IN  SANGUINETTTS 

You  acquaint'  my  good  frien'  Steve, 

Others  quick  forget? 
One  time  all  acquaint'  with  him, 

Steve-a  Sanguinett'. 

You  remember  his-a  place, 
Always  wide  the  door? 

Poet',  artis',  come  to  it 
Twenty  years  or  more. 

Always  gay  the  glasses  clink', 
Always  glad  the  shout; 

Then  the  Fire  come  pouff!   along, 
Steve-a  got  burnt  out. 

Ah,  the  vin  in  cellar  pop, 
Ah,  the  burn'  spaghett'! 

Poet',  artis',  seldom  come 
Back  to  Sanguinett'. 

Steve-a  die  the  other  day, 

Host-a  glad  no  more. 
Cafe  broke;   the  sheriff  .put 

Placard  on  the  door. 

Broke  his  big-a  heart,  I  think, 

Frien's  so  soon  forget. 
Good-a  bye!  Good  bye,  good  luck, 

Steve-a  Sanguinett'! 


58 


THE  LAST  NIGHT 

I  think  the  gocls,  who  fumbling  seek 
This  footstool  to  arrange, 

Might  well  have  left  to  genial  time 
The  rare  old  Bank  Exchange. 

I  think  the  winds  that  seek  the  Bay, 

The  very  tide  that  slips, 
Will  miss  its  cheer,  and  sadness  cleave 

A  world  of  ancient  ships; 

That  ghosts  of  early  mariners 

And   past   financial   kings 
Must  throng  the  pearly  bar  to  wail 

This  mortal  turn  of  things, 

This  mortal  change  that  cracked  the  cup, 
That  thrust  the  guests  to  rout, 

That  spilled  for  aye  the  pisco  punch, 
And  closed  old  Duncan  out. 

Since  Sixty-Six;   since  rolled  the  Bay 
To  youthful  Sansome  Street, 

Had  Duncan  Nichol  kept  his  place 
Impeccably  discreet. 

Yet  came  a  night,  as  night  must  come, 
When  from  the  looking-glass 

Those  ghosts  of  mariners  stared  down 
On  what  had  come  to  pass; 

When  Prohibition  fluttered  close, 
And  midnight  nearly  struck, 

And  white-haired  Duncan  Nichol   raised 
His  final  glass  for  luck. 


59 


"To  auld  lang  syne!"     With  trembling  lip 
He  staunchly  raised  the  cup. 

"For  aye,  to  auld  lang  syne!"  we  cried, 
And  made  it  bottoms  up. 

Then  half  a  century  closed  its  page, 

As  sounded  twelve  o'clock. 
"All  out!"  Old  Duncan's  rusty  key 

Turned  stiffly  in  the  lock. 

He  turned  a  key  ne'er  turned  before. 

And  we,  beholding,  knew 
That  what  had  been  was  done  and  been, 

And  what  was  through  was  through. 


60 


IN  PASSING 

I've  stood  at  dusk  on  a  flotsam  shore, 

And  dreamed  of  a  voyage  far 
To  world-end  ports  where  the  world  begins, 

And  the  palms  and  pagodas  are; 
To  ports  of  copra  and  sandalwood, 

Of  lacquers  and  teaks  and  myrrh, — 
Till  the  wide  waves  as  a  muezzin  droned, 

Calling  a  worshipper. 

"Go,"  said  the  city,  hardening. 

"Far  shall  you  sail,  and  free, 
Clear  to  the  world 's-end  ports;  and  then 

You  shall  come  bad?  to  me" 

I've  dreamed  of  hills  where  the  stars  burn  close, 

Of  hills  that  concede  no  change, 
But  still  bid  men,  to  be  men,  ride  hard 

Over  the  cattle  range; 
Of  canyons  that  plunge  into  chaparral, 

Ever  to  higher  climb; 
And  I've  dreamed  of  a  valley  that  God  hand-paints, 

Even  at  blossom-time. 

"Nay,"  said  the  city,  faltering, 

"Rest  in  these  arms,  nor  spurn. 

Other  than  mine  is  the  wine  out  there, 
And  you  will  not  return." 


61 


THE  LIGHTS 

I  watched  the  city,  pricked  in  light, 

Go  tumbling,  climbing,  hill  on  hill, 

And  heard  her  murmured  dissonance. 
Then  all  grew  still. 

I  watched  the  navigation  lights, 

The  port  and  starboard  red  and  green 
Draw  far  and  dim,  and  water  foam 

And  wash  between. 

I  saw  the  friendly  Ferry  clock 

Grow  faint  and  small,  and  Alcatraz 

Her  swinging  lantern  seaward  toss 
To  ships  that  pass. 

Until  that  shore  a  thing  remote 

Became,  a  dim  Arabian  Nights 

That  some  Sheherazade  had  told, 
I  watched  the  lights. 


62 


BOOK    IS   DUE   ON   THE   LAST   DATE 
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RENEWED   BOOKS  ARE  SUBJECT  TO   IMMEDIATE 
RECALL 


LIBRARY,  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA,  DAVIS 

Book  8tip-MH»4/00(]r*ai«3)45S-A'ai/* 


N9  650090 

PS  3545 

uiij   iliC.  16365 

A  city  of  caprice.  C5 


LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
DAVIS 


